If there is such a thing as literary theory, then it would seem obvious that there is something called literature which it is the theory of. We can begin, then, by raising the question: what is literature? There have been various attempts to define literature. You can define it, for example, as ‘imaginative’ writing in the sense of fiction -writing which is not literally true. But even the briefest reflection on what people commonly include under the heading of literature suggests that this will not do. Seventeenth- century English literature includes Shakespeare, Webster , Marvell and Milton; but it also stretches to the essays of Francis Bacon, the sermons of John Donne, Bunyan’s spiritual autobiography and whatever it was that Sir Thomas Browne wrote. It might even at a pinch be taken to encompass Hobbes’s Leviathan or Clarendon’s History of the Rebellion. French seventeenth-century literature contains, along with Comeille and Racine, La Rochefoucauld’s maxims, Bossuet’s funeral speeches, Boileau’s treatise on poetry, Madame de Sevigne’s letters to her daughter and the philosophy of Descartes and Pascal. Nineteenth-century English literature usually includes Lamb (though not Bentham), Macaulay (but not Marx), Mill (but not Darwin or Herbert Spencer).
A distinction between ‘fact’ and ‘fiction’; then, seems unlikely to get us very far, not least because the distinction itself is often a questionable one. It has been argued, for instance, that our own opposition between ‘historical’ and ‘artistic’ truth does not apply at all to the early Icelandic sagas. l In the English late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, the word ‘novel’ seems to have been used about both true and fictional events, and even news reports were hardly to be considered factual. Novels and news reports were neither clearly factual nor clearly fictional: our o~ sharp discriminations between these categories simply did not apply. Gibbon no doubt thought that he was writing historical truth, and so perhaps did the authors of Genesis, but they are now read as’ fact’ by some and ‘fiction’ by others; Newman; certainly thought his theological meditations were true, but they are now for many readers ‘literature’ .Moreover, if ‘literature includes much ‘factual’ writing, it also excludes quite a lot of fiction. Superman comic and Mills and Boon novels are fiction but not generally regarded as literature, and certainly not Literature. If literature is ‘creative’ or ‘imaginative’ writing does this imply that history, philosophy and natural science a uncreative and unimaginative?
Perhaps one needs a different kind of approach altogether. Perhaps literature is definable not according to whether it is fictional or ‘imaginative’, but because it uses language in peculiar ways. On this theory, literature is a kind of writing which, in the words of the Russian critic Roman Jacobson, represents an ‘organized violence committed on ordinary speech’. Literature transforms and intensifies ordinary language, deviates systematically from everyday speech. If you approach me at bus stop and murmur ‘Thou still unravished bride of quietness’ then I am instantly aware that I am in the presence of the literary. I know this because the texture, rhythm and resonance of your words are in excess of their abstract able meaning -or as the linguists might more technically put it, there is disproportion between the signifies and the signifies Your language draws attention to itself, flaunts its material being, as statements like ‘Don’t you know the drivers are on strike?’ do not.
This, in effect, was the definition of the ‘literary’ advanced by the Russian formalists, who included in their ranks Viktor Sh1ovsky, Roman Jakobson, Osip Brik, Yury Tynyanov, Boris Eichenbaum and Boris Tomashevsky. The Formalists emerged in Russia in the years before the 1917 Bolshevik revolution, and flourished throughout the 1920s, until they were effectively silenced by Stalinism. A militant, polemical group of critics: they rejected the quasi-mystical symbolist doctrines which had influenced literary criticism before them, and in a practical, scientific spirit shifted attention to the material reality of the literary text itself. Criticism should dissociate art from mystery and concern itself with how literary texts actually worked. Literature was not pseudo-religion or psychology or sociology but a particular organization of language. It had its own specific laws, structures and devices, which were to be studied in themselves rather than reduced to something else. The literary work was neither a vehicle for ideas, a reflection of social reality nor the incarnation of some transcendental truth. it was a material fact, whose functioning could be analyzed rather as one could examine a machine. It was made of words, not of objects or feelings, and it was a mistake to see it as the expression of an author’s mind. Pushkin’s Eugene Onegin, Osip Brik once airily remarked, would have been written even if Pushkin had not lived.
Formalism was essentially the application of linguistics to the study of literature; and because the linguistics in question were of a formal kind, concerned with the structures of language rather than with what one might actually say, the Formalists passed over the analysis of literary ‘content’ (where one might always be tempted into psychology or sociology) for the study of literary form. Far from seeing form as the expression of content, they stood the relationship on its head: content was merely the ‘motivation’ of form, an occasion or convenience for a particular kind of formal exercise. Don Quixote is not ‘about’ the character of that name: the character is just a device for holding together different kinds of narrative technique. Animal Farm for the Formalists would not be an allegory of Stalinism; on the contrary, Stalinism would simply provide a useful opportunity for the construction of an allegory. It was this perverse insistence which won for the Formalists their derogatory name from their antagonists; and though they did not deny that art had a relation to social reality -indeed some of them were closely associated with the Bolsheviks -they provocatively claimed that this relation was not the critic’s business.
The Formalists started out by seeing the literary work as a more or less arbitrary assemblage of ‘devices’, and only later came to see these devices as interrelated elements or ‘functions’ within a total textual system. ‘Devices’ included sound, imagery , rhythm, syntax, metre, rhyme, narrative techniques, in fact the whole stock of formal literary elements; and what all of these elements had in common was their ‘estrangement?;’ or ‘defamiliarizing’ effect. What was specific to literary language, what distinguished it from other forms of discourse, was that it deformed’ ordinary language in various ways. Under the pressure of literary devices, ordinary language was intensified, condensed, twisted, telescoped, drawn out, turned on its head. It was language ‘made strange’; and because of this estrangement, the everyday world was also suddenly made unfamiliar. In he routines of everyday speech, our perceptions of and responses to reality become stale, blunted, or, as the Formalists would say, ‘automatized’. Literature, by forcing us into a dramatic awareness of language, refreshes these habitual responses and renders objects more ‘perceptible’. By having to grapple with language in a more strenuous, self-conscious way than usual, the world which that language contains is vividly renewed. The poetry of Gerard Manley Hopkins might provide a particularly graphic example of this. Literary discourse ‘estranges or alienates ordinary speech, but in doing so, paradoxically, brings us into a fuller, more intimate possession of experience. Most of the time we breathe in air without being conscious of it: like language, it is the very medium in which we move. But if the air is suddenly thickened or infected we are forced to attend to our breathing with new vigilance, and the effect of this may be a heightened experience of our bodily life, we read a scribbled note from a friend without paying much attention to its narrative structure; but if a story breaks off and begins again, switches constantly from one narrative level to another and delays its climax to keep us in suspense, we become freshly conscious of how it is constructed at the same time as our engagement with it may be intensified. The story, as the Formalists would argue, uses impeding’ or ‘retarding’ devices to hold our attention; and in literary language, these devices are laid bare’. It was this which moved Viktor Shlovsky to remark mischievously of Laurence Sterne’s Tristram Shandy, a novel which impedes its own story-line so much that it hardly gets off he ground, that it was ‘the most typical novel in world literature’ .
The Formalists, then, saw literary language as a set of deviations from a norm, a kind of linguistic violence: literature is a special’ kind of language, in contrast to the ‘ordinary’ language ve commonly use. But to spot a deviation implies being able to identify the norm from which it swerves. Though ‘ordinary language’ is a concept beloved of some Oxford philosophers, the ordinary language of Oxford philosophers has little in common with the ordinary language of Glaswegian dockers. The language both social groups use to write love letters usually differs from the way they talk to the local vicar. The idea that there s a single ‘normal’ language, a common currency shared equally )y all members of society, is an illusion. Any actual language consists of a highly complex range of discourses, differentiated according to class, region, gender, status and so on, which can by no means be neatly unified into a single, homogeneous linguistic community. One person’s norm may be another’s deviation: ‘ginnel’ for ‘alleyway’ may be poetic in Brighton but ordinary language in Barnsley. Even the most ‘prosaic’ text of the fifteenth century may sound ‘poetic’ to us today because of its archaism. If we were to stumble across an isolated scrap of writing from some long-vanished civilization, we could not tell whether it was ‘poetry’ or not merely by inspecting it, since we might have no access to that society’s ‘ordinary’ discourses; and even if further research were to reveal that it was ‘deviatory’, this would still not prove that it was poetry as not all linguistic deviations are poetic. Slang, for example. We would not be able to tell just by looking at it that it was not a piece of ‘realist’ literature, without much more information about the way it actually functioned as a piece of writing within the society in question.
It is not that the Russian Formalists did not realize all this. They recognized that norms and deviations shifted around from one social or historical context to another -that ‘poetry. in this sense depends on where you happen to be standing at the time. The fact that a piece of language was ‘estranging’ did not guarantee that it was always and everywhere so: it was estranging only against a certain normative linguistic background, and if this altered then the writing might cease to be perceptible as literary. If everyone used phrases like ‘unravished bride of quietness’ in ordinary pub conversation, this kind of language might cease to be poetic. For the Formalists, in other words, ‘literariness’ was a function of the differential relations between one sort of discourse and another; it was not an eternally given property. They were not out to define ‘literature’, but ‘literariness’ -special uses of language, which could be found in ‘literary’ texts but also in many places outside them. Anyone who believes that ‘literature’ can be defined by such special uses of language has to face the fact that there is more metaphor in Manchester than there is in Marvell. There is no ‘literary’ device -metonymy, synecdoche, litotes, chiasmus and so on -which is not quite intensively used in daily discourse.
Nevertheless, the Formalists still presumed that ‘making strange’ was the essence of the literary. It was just that they relativized this use of language, saw it as a matter of contrast between one type of speech and another. But what if I were to hear someone at the next pub table remark ‘This is awfully squiggly handwriting!’ Is this ‘literary’ or ‘non-literary’ language? As a matter of fact, it is ‘literary’ language because it comes from Knut Hamsun’s novel Hunger. But how do I know that it is literary? It doesn’t, after all, focus any particular attention on itself as a verbal performance. One answer to the question of how I know that this is literary is that it comes from Knit Hamsun’s novel Hunger. It is part of a text which I read as ‘fictional’, which announces itself as a ‘novel’, which may be put on university literature syllabuses and so on. The context tells me that it is literary; but the language itself has no inherent proper- ties or qualities which might distinguish it from other kinds of discourse, and someone might well say this in a pub without being admired for their literary dexterity. To think of literature as the Formalists do is really to think of all literature as poetry. Significantly, when the Formalists came to consider prose writing, they often simply extended to it the kinds of technique they had used with poetry. But literature is usually judged o contain much besides poetry -to include, for example, realist or naturalistic writing which is not linguistically self-conscious or self-exhibiting in any striking way. People sometimes call writing ‘fine’ precisely because it doesn’t draw undue attention to itself: they admire its laconic plainness or low-keyed sobriety . And what about jokes, football chants and slogans, newspaper headlines, advertisements, which are often verbally flamboyant but not generally classified as literature?
Another problem with the ‘estrangement’ case is that there is no kind of writing which cannot, given sufficient ingenuity, be read as estranging. Consider a prosaic, quite unambiguous statement like the one sometimes seen in the London underground system: ‘Dogs must be carried on the escalator.’ This is not perhaps quite as unambiguous as it seems at first sight: does it mean that you must carry a dog on the escalator? are you likely to be banned from the escalator unless you can find some stray mongrel to clutch in your arms on the way up? Many apparently straightforward notices contain such ambiguities: ‘Refuse to be put in this basket,’ for instance, or the British road-sign ‘Way Out’ as read by a Californian. But even leaving such troubling ambiguities aside, it is surely obvious that the underground notice could be read as literature. One could let oneself be arrested by the abrupt, minatory staccato of the first ponderous monosyllables; find one’s mind drifting, by the time it had reached the rich allusiveness of ‘carried’, to suggestive resonances of helping lame dogs through life; and perhaps even detect in the very lilt and inflection of the word ‘escalator’ a miming of the rolling, up-and-down motion of the thing itself. This may well be a fruitless sort of pursuit, but it is NOT significantly more fruitless than claiming to hear the cut and thrust of the rapiers in some poetic description of a duel, and at least has the advantage of suggesting that ‘literature’ may be at least as much a question of what people do to writing as of what writing does to them.
But even if someone were to read the notice in this way, it would still be a matter of reading it as poetry, which is only part of what is usually included in literature. Let us therefore consider another way of ‘misreading’ the sign which might move us a little beyond this. Imagine a late-night drunk doubled over the escalator handrail who reads the notice with laborious attentiveness for several minutes and then mutters to himself ‘How rude!’ What kind of mistake is occurring here? What the drunk is doing, in fact, is taking the sign as some statement of general, even cosmic significance. By applying certain conventions of reading to its words, he prises them loose from their immediate context and generalizes them beyond their pragmatic purpose to something of wider and probably deeper import. This would certainly seem to be one operation involved in what people call literature. When the poet tells us that his love is like a red rose, we know by the very fact that he puts this statement in metre that we are not supposed to ask whether he actually had a lover, who for some bizarre reason seemed to him to resemble a rose. He is telling us something about women and love in general. Literature, then, we might say, is ‘non-pragmatic’ discourse: unlike biology textbooks and notes to the milkman it serves no immediate practical purpose, but is to be taken as referring to , general state of affairs. Sometimes, though not always, it ma’ employ peculiar language as though to make this fact obvious – to signal that what is at stake is a way of talking about a woman rather than any particular real-life woman. This focusing on tho way of talking, rather than on the reality of what is talked about, is sometimes taken to indicate that we mean by literature a kind of self-referential language, a language which talks about itself.
There are, however, problems with this way of defining literature too. For one thing, it would probably have come as a surprise to George Orwell to hear that his essays were to be read as though the topics he discussed were less important than the way he discussed them. In much that is classified as literature the truth-value and practical relevance of what is said is considered important to the overall effect But even if treating discourse ‘non-pragmatically’ is part of what is meant by literature’, then it follows from this ‘definition’ that literature cannot in fact be ‘objectively’ defined. It leaves the definition of literature up to how somebody decides to read, not to the nature of what is written. There are certain kinds of writing -poems, plays, novels -which are fairly obviously intended to be ‘non- pragmatic’ in this sense, but this does not guarantee that they will actually be read in this way. I might well read Gibbon’s account of the Roman empire not because I am misguided enough to believe that it will be reliably informative about ancient Rome but because I enjoy Gibbon’s prose style, or revel in images of human corruption whatever their historical source. But I might read Robert Burns’s poem because it is not clear to me, as a Japanese horticulturalist, whether or not the red rose flourished in eighteenth-century Britain. This, it will be said, is not reading it ‘as literature’; but am I reading Orwell’s essays as literature only if I generalize what he says about the Spanish civil war to some cosmic utterance about human life? It is true that many of the works studied as literature in academic institutions were ‘constructed’ to be read as literature, but it is also true that many of them were not. A piece of writing may start off life as history or philosophy and then come to be ranked as literature; or it may start off as literature and then come to be valued for its archaeological significance. Some texts are born literary, some achieve literariness, and some have literariness thrust upon them. Breeding in this respect may count for a good deal more than birth. What matters may not be where you came from but how people treat you. If they decide that you are literature then it seems that you are, irrespective of what you thought you were.
In this sense, one can think of literature less as some inherent quality or set of qualities displayed by certain kinds of writing all the way from Beowulf to Virginia Woolf, than as a number of ways in which people relate themselves to writing. It would not be easy to isolate, from all that has been variously called ‘literature’, some constant set of inherent features. In fact it would be as impossible as trying to identify the single distinguishing feature which all games have in common. There is no ‘essence’ of literature whatsoever. Any bit of writing may be read ‘non-pragmatically’, if that is what reading a text as literature means, just as any writing may be read ‘poetically’. If I pore over the railway timetable not to discover a train connection but to stimulate in myself general reflections on the speed and complexity of modern existence, then I might be said to be reading it as literature. John M. Ellis has argued that the term ‘literature’ operates rather like the word ‘weed’: weeds are not particular kinds of plant, but just any kind of plant which for some reason or another a gardener does not want around. 3 Perhaps ‘literature’ means something like the opposite: any kind of writing which for some reason or another somebody values highly. As the philosophers might say, ‘literature’ and “weed’ are functional rather than ontological terms: they tell us about what we do, not about the fixed being of things. They tell us about the role of a text or a thistle in a social context, its relations with and differences from its surroundings, the ways it behaves, the purposes it may be put to and the human practices clustered around it. ‘Literature’ is in this sense a purely formal, empty sort of definition. Even if we claim that it is a non-pragmatic treatment of language, we have still not arrived at an ‘essence’ of literature because this is also so of other linguistic practices such as jokes. In any case, it is far from clear that we can discriminate neatly between ‘practical’ and ‘non-practical’ ways of relating ourselves to language. Reading a novel for pleasure obviously differs from reading a road sign for information, but how about reading a biology textbook to improve your mind? Is that a ‘pragmatic’ treatment of language or not? In many societies, ‘literature’ has served highly practical functions such as religious ones; distinguishing sharply between ‘practical’ and ‘non- practical’ may only be possible in a society like ours, where literature has ceased to have much practical function at all. We may be offering as a general definition a sense of the ‘literary’ which is in fact historically specific.
We have still not discovered the secret, then, of why Lamb, Macaulay and Mill are literature but not, generally speaking, Bentham, Marx and Darwin. Perhaps the simple answer is that the first three are examples of ‘fine writing’, whereas the last three are not. This answer has the disadvantage of being largely untrue, at least in my judgement, but it has the advantage of suggesting that by and large people term ‘literature’ writing which they think is good. An obvious objection to this is that if it were entirely true there would be no such thing as ‘bad literature’ .I may consider Lamb and Macaulay overrated, but that does not necessarily mean that I stop regarding them as literature. You may consider Raymond Chandler ‘good of his kind’, but not exactly literature. On the other hand, if Macaulay were a really bad writer -if he had no grasp at all of grammar and seemed interested in nothing but white mice – then people might well not call his work literature at all, even bad literature. Value-judgements would certainly seem to have a lot to do with what is judged literature and what isn’t -not necessarily in the sense that writing has to be ‘fine’ to be literary , but that it has to be of the kind that is judged fine: it may be an inferior example of a generally valued mode. Nobody would bother to say that a bus ticket was an example of inferior literature, but someone might well say that the poetry of Ernest Dowson was. The term ‘fine writing’, or belles lettres, is in this sense ambiguous: it denotes a sort of writing which is generally highly regarded, while not necessarily committing you to the opinion that a particular specimen of it is ‘good’.
With this reservation, ‘the suggestion that ‘literature’ is a highly valued kind of writing is an illuminating one. But it has one fairly devastating consequence. It means that we can drop once and for all the illusion that the category ‘literature’ is ‘objective’, in the sense of being eternally given and immutable. If anything can be literature, and anything which is regarded as unalterably and unquestionably literature -Shakespeare, for example–can cease to be literature. Any belief that the study of literature is the study of a stable, well-definable entity, as entomology is the study of insects, can be abandoned as a chimera. Some kinds of fiction are literature and some are not; some literature is fictional and some is not; some literature is verbally self-regarding, while some highly-wrought rhetoric is not literature. Literature, in the sense of a set of works of assured and unalterable value, distinguished by certain shared inherent properties, does not exist. When I use the words ‘literary’ and literature’ from here on in this book, then, I place them under m invisible crossing-out mark, to indicate that these terms will not really do but that we have no better ones at the moment.
The reason why it follows from the definition of literature as highly valued writing that it is not a stable entity is that value-judgements are notoriously variable. ‘Times change, values don’t,’ announces an advertisement for a daily newspaper, as
though we still believed in killing off infirm infants or putting the mentally ill on public show. Just as people may treat a work as philosophy in one century and as literature in the next, or vice versa, so they may change their minds about what writing they consider valuable. They may even change their minds about the sounds they use for judging what is valuable and what is not. This, as I have suggested, does not necessarily mean that they will refuse the title of literature to a work which they have come to deem inferior: they may still call it literature, meaning roughly that it belongs to the type of writing which they generally value. But it does mean that the so-called ‘literary canon’, the unquestioned ‘great tradition’ of the ‘national literature’, has to be recognized as a construct, fashioned by particular people for particular reasons at a certain time. There is no such thing as a literary work or tradition which is valuable in itself, regardless of what anyone might have said or come to say about it. ‘Value’ is a transitive term: it means whatever is valued by certain people in specific situations, according to particular criteria and in the light of given purposes. It is thus quite possible that, given a deep enough transformation of our history , we may in the future produce a society which is unable to get anything at all out of Shakespeare. His works might simply seem desperately alien, full of styles of thought and feeling which such a society found limited or irrelevant. In such a situation, Shakespeare would be no more valuable than much present-day graffiti. And though many people would consider such a social condition tragically impoverished, it seems to me dogmatic not to entertain the possibility that it might arise rather from a general human enrichment. Karl Marx was troubled -by the question of why ancient Greek art retained an ‘eternal charm’, even though the social conditions which produced it had long passed; but how do we know that it will remain ‘eternally’ charming, since history has not yet ended? Let us imagine that by dint of some deft archaeological research we discovered a great deal more about what ancient Greek tragedy actually meant to its original audiences, recognized that these concerns were utterly remote from our own, and began to read the plays again in the light of this deepened knowledge. One result might be that we stopped enjoying them. We might come to see that we had enjoyed then previously because we were unwittingly reading them in thc light of our own preoccupations; once this became less possible the drama might cease to speak at all significantly to us.
The fact that we always interpret literary works to some extent in the light of our own concerns -indeed that in one sense o ‘our own concerns’ we are incapable of doing anything else – might be one reason why certain works of literature seem to retain their value across the centuries. It may be, of course, that we still share many preoccupations with the work itself; but i may also be that people have not actually been valuing the ‘same’ work at all, even though they may think they have. ‘Our Homer is not identical with the Homer of the Middle Ages, no ‘our’ Shakespeare with that of his contemporaries; it is rather that different historical periods have constructed a ‘different Homer and Shakespeare for their own purposes, and found in these texts elements to value or devalue, though, not necessarily the same ones. All literary works, in other words, are ‘rewritten’ if only unconsciously, by the societies which read them; indeed there is no reading of a work which is not also a ‘re-writing’. No work, and no current evaluation of it, can simply be extended to new groups of people without being changed, perhaps almost unrecognizably, in the process; and this is one reason why what counts as literature is a notably unstable affair .
I do not mean that it is unstable because value-judgement are ‘subjective’ .According to this view , the world is divided between solid facts ‘out there’ like Grand Central station, and arbitrary value-judgements ‘in here’ such as liking bananas or feeling that the tone of a Yeats poem veers from defensive hectoring to grimly resilient resignation. Facts are public and impeachable, values are private and gratuitous. There is an obvious difference between recounting a fact, such as ‘This cathedral was built in 1612,’ and registering a value-judgement, 1 as ‘This cathedral is a magnificent specimen of baroque architecture.’ But suppose I made the first kind of statement while Ning an overseas visitor around England, and found that it puzzled her considerably. Why, she might ask, do you keep telling me the dates of the foundation of all these buildings? Why obsession with origins? In the society I live in, she might go we keep no record at all of such events: we classify our buildings instead according to whether they face north-west or :h-east. What this might do would be to demonstrate part of the unconscious system of value-judgements which underlies my own descriptive statements. Such value-judgements are not necessarily of the same kind as ‘This cathedral is a magnificent specimen of baroque architecture,’ but they are value- judgements nonetheless, and no factual pronouncement I make can escape them. Statements of fact are after all statements, which presumes a number of questionable judgements: that those statements are worth making, perhaps more worth making than certain others, that I am the sort of person entitled to make them and perhaps able to guarantee their truth, that you are the kind of person worth making them to, that something useful will be accomplished by making them, and so on. A pub conversation may well transmit information, but what also bulks large in such dialogue is a strong element of what linguists would call the ‘phatic’, a concern with the act of communication itself. In chatting to you about the weather I am also signaling that I regard conversation with you as valuable, that I consider you a worthwhile person to talk to, that I am not myself anti-social or about to embark on a detailed critique of your personal appearance.
In this sense, there is no possibility of a wholly disinterested statement. Of course stating when a cathedral was built is reckoned to be more disinterested in our own culture than passing an opinion about its architecture, but one could also imagine situations in which the former statement would be more ‘value-laden’ than the latter. Perhaps ‘baroque’ and ‘magnificent’ have come to be more or less synonymous, whereas only a stubborn rump of us cling to the belief that the date when a building was founded is significant, and my statement is taken as a coded way of signaling this partisanship. All of our descriptive statements move within an often invisible network of value-categories, and indeed without such categories we would have nothing to say to each other at all. It is not just as though we have something called factual knowledge which may then be distorted by particular interests and judgements, although this is certainly possible; it is also that without particular interests we would have no knowledge at all, because we would not see the point of bothering to get to know anything. Interests are constitutive of our knowledge, not merely prejudices which imperil it. The claim that knowledge should be ‘value-free’ is itself a value-judgement.
It may well be that a liking for bananas is a merely private matter, though this is in fact questionable. A thorough analysis of my tastes in food would probably reveal how deeply relevant they are to certain formative experiences in early childhood, to my relations with my parents and siblings and to a good many other cultural factors which are quite as social and ‘non- subjective’ as railway stations. This is even more true of that fundamental structure of beliefs and interests which I am born into as a member of a particular society, such as the belief that I should try to keep in good health, that differences of sexual role are rooted in human biology or that human beings are more important than crocodiles. We may disagree on this or that, but we can only do so because we share certain ‘deep’ ways of seeing and valuing which are bound up with our social life, and which could not be changed without transforming that life. Nobody will penalize me heavily if I dislike a particular Donne poem, but if I argue that Donne is not literature at all then in certain circumstances I might risk losing my job. I am free to vote Labour or Conservative, but if I try to act on the belief that this choice itself merely masks a deeper prejudice -the prejudice that the meaning of democracy is confined to putting a cross on a ballot paper every few years -then in certain unusual circumstances I might end up in prison.
The largely concealed structure of values which informs and underlies our factual statements is part of what is meant by ‘ideology’. By ‘ideology’ I mean, roughly, the ways in which what we say and believe connects with the power-structure and power-relations of the society we live in. It follows from such a rough definition of ideology that not all of our underlying judgements and categories can usefully be said to be ideological. It is deeply ingrained in us to imagine ourselves moving forwards into the future ( at least one other society sees itself as moving backwards into it), but though this way of seeing may connect significantly with the power-structure of our society, it need not always and everywhere do so. I do not mean. by ‘ideology’ simply the deeply entrenched, often unconscious beliefs which people hold; I mean more particularly those modes of feeling, valuing, perceiving and believing which have some kind of relation to the maintenance and reproduction of social power. The fact that such beliefs are by no means merely private quirks may be illustrated by a literary example.
In his famous study Practical Criticism (1929), the Cambridge critic I. A. Richards sought to demonstrate just how whimsical and subjective literary value-judgements could actually be by giving his undergraduates a set of poems, withholding from them the titles and authors’ names, and asking them to evaluate them. The resulting judgements, notoriously, were highly variable: time-honoured poets were marked down and obscure authors celebrated. To my mind, however, the most interesting aspect of this project, and one apparently quite invisible to Richards himself, is just how tight a consensus of unconscious valuations underlies these particular differences of opinion. Reading Richards’ undergraduates’ accounts of literary works one is struck by the habits of perception and interpretation which they spontaneously share -what they expect literature to be, what assumptions they bring to a poem and what fulfillments they anticipate they will derive from it. None of this is really surprising: for all the participants in this experiment were, presumably, young, white, upper- or upper middle- class, privately educated English people of the 1920s, and how they responded to a poem depended on a good deal more than purely ‘literary’ factors. Their critical responses were deeply entwined with their broader prejudices and beliefs. This is not a matter of blame: there is no critical response which is not so entwined, and thus no such thing as a ‘pure’ literary critical judgement or interpretation. If anybody is to be blamed it is I. A. Richards himself, who as a young, white, upper-middle-class male Cambridge don was unable to objectify a context of interests which he himself largely shared, and was thus unable to recognize fully that local, ‘subjective’ differences of evaluation work within a particular, socially structured way of perceiving the world.
If it will not do to see literature as an ‘objective’, descriptive category, neither will it do to say that literature is just what people whimsically choose to call literature. For there is nothing at all whimsical about such kinds of value-judgement: they have their roots in deeper structures of belief which are as apparently unshakeable as the Empire State building. What we have uncovered so far, then, is not only that literature does not exist in the sense that insects do, and that the value-judgements by which it is constituted are historically variable, but that these value-judgements themselves have a close relation to social ideologies. They refer in the end not simply to private taste, but to the assumptions by which certain social groups exercise and maintain power over others. If this seems a far-fetched assertion, a matter of private prejudice, we may test it out by an account of the rise of ‘literature’ in England.